‘Romy Fitzgerald always planned to go the conventional route: boyfriend, marriage, children. Motherhood via cupboard sex at a costume party with a stranger dressed as Darth Vader didn’t feature on her to-do list.’
Right, so as above, woman goes to a party where everyone is wearing masks, has a masked fuck with some bloke and nine months later has a kid whose father she doesn’t know the name or face of. You get the back story and then get pulled back to the present day, where the kid has come out of her cunt and she is being a single mum. People from her past come back and the story focuses on her relationships with people that she used to know, as well as her relationships with her family.
First point – it’s chick-lit, so as I say every fucking time that I review one of these, if you don’t like chick-lit then don’t buy it, read it, and then come moaning to me because you don’t fucking like it. It’s not busting out of that genre to start a revolution, it is what it is.
Second point – if you do like chick-lit, then read it. Clodagh has been compared to Sophie Kinsella and Marian Keyes and they’re probably quite good. This was better and more engaging than some of the women’s fiction I’ve read in the past. It’s got a nice range of characters and a few plot lines (not just the ‘who’s the Daddy’) that keep you intrigued throughout the whole book. And it’s a fucking long book, but it’s length isn’t off-putting. It just gives you more to get stuck into.
I’ve yet to read any chick-lit that has surprised me at the end. You guess what’s coming as you go along and this book didn’t change any of that, but it doesn’t make it redundant. It’s nice and comforting. Like a lovely jumper, or a shag with someone you've known since primary school.
Recommended as a holiday read or for a lazy Sunday.